


Crowley and the Antichrist

by Animationfantic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, shutting down the cell system, the rat army, what happened the night Adam was born
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Animationfantic/pseuds/Animationfantic
Summary: After shutting down London's cell network, Crowley has to deliver the baby that will one day end the world.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Rats in London

Twilight encircled London, drawing another hot August day to a close. Outside the shop, Crowley put the car in park. He could see Aziraphale puttering around through the window. There weren’t any customers. Crowley glanced at his watch. Half past five. Aziraphale must have kicked everyone out early. By the slope of his shoulders, Crowley could tell he was on the phone. He waved. Aziraphale acknowledged him and waved back.

Better give him a few minutes. Crowley bared his teeth in anticipation. In an hour, nobody would be using their phones. Let him enjoy it while he could.

His gaze flicked to the backseat and fell on the hideous splotch of orange.

 _Been a while since I wore this._ Crowley lifted the sleeve and ran the plasticky fabric through his fingers. It looked twice as offensive in the light of day. The artificial tint reminded him of radioactive waste.

The last time he’d put this on was back in the seventies. 1973, to be exact, during the construction for the M25. Under cover of darkness, he had infiltrated the site and moved half the markers across a mud-slick field. Rain from the night before turned it to a squelching nightmare. Black ooze soaked into his boots with every step.

Crowley kept a bit skin from each shed. He made them himself. The thought of turning other snakes into footwear appalled him. And the night's work had totally ruined the pair he was wearing. They’d been his favorite pair, too. Shame.

Crowley hissed. Compared to the computers, moving the pegs was nothing. A little messy, but much simpler. Hacking into the system was the tricky bit, replacing the official blueprint with the alterations. The rest had been a cinch. A hundred slipped in the overseer’s pocket to ensure the office door was left ajar. Wait until the night shift left, slip inside, in and out in twenty minutes. Simple. He had tried to explain it to Hell and had been met with blank looks. Crowley snorted. No imagination. Living Below sapped a demon of every creative thought.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had been mightily impressed. Positively scandalized.

“Oh, Crowley, you _didn’t!”_ he had exclaimed.

After the Holy Water Exchange of ’67, an unspoken addition had been added to the Arrangement. They’d been a lot of time in each other’s company, more than ever before. Aziraphale was very reluctant to go more than a week without speaking. Not that Crowley minded. Any excuse to spend time with his angel.

A thunderstorm had cut another night in the muck short. With nothing better to do, Crowley dropped by for a visit. It was a good thing, too. Aziraphale was restive.

Since handing the demon a one-way ticket to extinction, he never let Crowley out of his sight for more than five days at a stretch. Crowley wasn't surprised. If things went pear-shaped, the angel was convinced Crowley would bail. Take the thermos, upend it over his head, and bid adieu to his existence. Nothing he said made a difference. Aziraphale spent his days in terror Crowley would turn himself into demon soup.

Crowley had felt his heart crack down the middle at the very thought. _It’s insurance, not a suicide pill. I’ll never leave you, angel. Never._

Masking the hurt, Crowley grinned wolfishly over the rim of his glass. “Yup,” he said, obnoxiously popping the p.

He took a sip of his wine. The angel brought out the good stuff. Strong and sweet, the way he liked it. Crowley knew Aziraphale only kept it for him. The angel’s taste ran subtler, refined. Crowley’s drinks had enough sugar to rot every tooth in his mouth. Privately, Aziraphale found his serpent’s sweet tooth amusing and indulged wherever possible. He miracled half the sugar from his own wine and donated it to Crowley’s. The reptilian smile was worth it every time.

“Really, my dear, where do you come up with these ideas?” Aziraphale asked. “What did you change it to?”

“The sigil _odegra_ ,” Crowley said. He lifted his chin proudly. “You remember, angel. Hail the Great Beast.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “A trifle heavy-handed, my dear.”

“C’mon, no one’s gonna notice! Give me some credit.”

Aziraphale nudged his filthy boots off the coffee table. “Get any more mud on my floor and I’ll give you a piece of my mind.”

They laughed.

“’Sides, I wasn’t going for subtle. More dramatic irony. A giant demonically-influenced project encircling the whole of London. Years in the making with wide-reaching effects that will be felt for generations to come.” His eyes flashed meaningfully. “A snakelike masterpiece.”

Aziraphale’s affectionate cluck sent a pleasurable ripple down Crowley’s spine. The angel might be a bit behind the times, but at least he was supportive. 

“You pulled this off single-handedly? Very impressive, Crowley. I do hope this doesn’t come back to haunt you.”

“You worry too much,” Crowley said. “Trust me, angel. Totally non-backfiring scheme. A hundred percent foolproof.”

“Hmm. Where have I heard that before?”

“Ha-ha, very funny.”

Aziraphale hid his smirk in another gulp of wine. Crowley beamed. _Finally, a bit of recognition._

Trying to explain the M25 plan Downstairs had been nothing short of a disaster. “What’s a computer?” Hastur had asked. No matter. Aziraphale was impressed.

“I’ve thought it all out. Total win-win for both of us,” Crowley said. “Angry drivers, noise pollution, and miles and miles of tailbacks, stretching as far as the eye can see.” He sighed dreamily. “Can you imagine?”

“Vividly,” Aziraphale said in a tone carrying all the sand in the desert.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s all contained on the motorway. It’ll cut down on pedestrians wandering past this mold-infested little shop of yours, you mark my words. Fewer pedestrians, fewer customers. The books are safe. You’re welcome.”

Without realizing it, he leaned forward as he warmed to his subject. Aziraphale was a great audience.  
  
“Their souls get a dusting of sin and you can thwart a traffic jam here and there. The best part? Human-generated chaos. They do all the hard work themselves. All with minimal effort on my part. A little break-in, a handful of bribes… _stop laughing!”_

Aziraphale had a hand to his mouth to stifle his chortling. “I’m sorry,” he said. He pulled out his trusty handkerchief and wiped at his streaming eyes. “Please continue.”

“Where was I? Oh, yeah. Tailbacks. You’ve never _seen_ a mess like the one this M25 thing is gonna cause. You wait. This is big. Probably my biggest one. I’ll get a commendation for this one, mark my words. Thousands of souls mildly soiled in one fell swoop. Pass-along effects, complaints to Parliament, and lots of glorious mayhem. All thanks to yours truly.” Crowley bowed. “Please, hold your applause.”

“You certainly have a knack for stirring up modern-day trouble. Ever the wily one, Crowley, my dear.”

“You know it,” Crowley said, and raised his glass in a toast.

As he left, Aziraphale kissed the air by his cheek. “Mind how you go, you old serpent.”

Crowley’s brain jammed. “Ngk,” he said, once he regained the power of speech.

His face felt hot. The twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye as he pulled back was a dead giveaway. The bastard.

 _And he says_ I _go too fast._

He knew what his was about. Aziraphale wasn’t leading him on. He was terrified this would be the last time they’d see each other. The unspoken plea hung in the air between them.

_Be careful._

Crowley cleared his throat. “’Course,” he grunted. He clapped the angel on the shoulder. It was the closest he could come to answering the silent prayer.

“What d’you think, lunch on Thursday?” Crowley was impressed he sounded so normal. As if nothing had happened.

Aziraphale had smiled, and squeezed his arm. “That sounds lovely.”

And that was that.

Now, sitting in the car in muggy embrace of an August evening, Crowley gave the jacket another pat. _Day-glow orange. Eesh._ _Who came_ up _with this color?_

A flicker of movement caught his attention. Crowley snapped his head up. The jacket fell to the floor. A stroller was rolling toward the middle of the road. The mother, busy with her shopping bags, didn’t notice. Crowley was about to spring into action when the carriage rolled to a _miraculous_ stop.

Crowley grinned, more affectionately this time. _That’s my angel. Going soft in his old age._

He glanced at the shop window. Aziraphale was beckoning. The coast was clear. Crowley flipped him a thumbs-up and stepped out of the car. Ignoring the closed sign, Crowley pushed open the door.

Aziraphale was just finishing his conversation. Judging by his narrowed eyes, it was a customer.

“There really is no need for that kind of language.” Sniffing, he replaced the receiver. “Honestly.”

“That bad, huh?”

Aziraphale greeted him with a smile. “Hello, dear. You’re early.”

“Thought I’d pop by. You said you had the fake I.D. ready?”

“Oh, no. It’s today?”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily. He took those silly glasses off the bridge of his nose and stalked into the back room. He beckoned Crowley to follow.

Grinning broadly, Crowley perched on the couch set up by the window, next to Aziraphale’s desk. It was his couch. His own private property within the angelic haven of books.

Aziraphale rummaged through a stack of papers. “Where is it, I just had it. Hang on, dear, I know it’s around here somewhere.”

He was so disorganized. Unusual for an angel. Crowley found the mess of papers a relief. Compared to the threatening cleanliness of Heaven, Aziraphale’s nest of a bookshop was a breath of fresh air.

_Nest. That reminds me. Gotta make sure the rats make it home safe._

“I thought this escapade of yours was happening next week.”

Aziraphale stopped ferreting around long enough to glance at his calendar. It was just like him to have tabs on Crowley’s demonic wiles.

Crowley shrugged. He leaned back on the sofa and folded his arms behind his head. “BT Tower called first thing this morning,” he said. “Everything’s in place. I’m ahead of schedule.”

“You’re all set up?”

“Yup. Went inside BT Tower, had a look inside on Sunday, set up a legitimate pest control business Tuesday, and called the rats soon as I got home. I asked them to do their thing, and they’ve done it. Once we find that I.D., I’ll be in business. Thanks, by the way.”

A legitimate pest control business required a legitimate form of identification. Unfortunately, the authorities had memorized Crowley’s handwriting. It had taken them a while, but after all these years of being presented with fake I.D. cards from the same flash bastard in dark glasses, they’d caught on. Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if he had a file somewhere. He hoped it was big.

“Legitimate business,” the angel sniffed. “You spoil those rats, my dear.”

Crowley shrugged. “Hey, it counts. We help each other out. They help me, I help them. We’re business partners. Kinda.”

Aziraphale sniffed again but didn’t argue. Crowley’s affinity with rats stretched back centuries. The few he’d saved from the Flood had spawned countless generations through the decades until their number stretched into the hundreds of thousands. These rats always found their way back to Crowley. You could always tell which ones were his. They were somehow impervious to the Black Death. Ticks never bit them. Rabies had no effect. Twice as big, three times as intelligent, and unusually fond of mayhem.

Crowley appreciated the underappreciated. No one looked twice at a rat. They were dirty, vile. Apart from the lucky ones kept as pets, the majority of rats were seen as nothing more than a plague meant to be stamped out as quickly as possible.

Like snakes.

“Ah-ha!”

With a triumphant flourish, Aziraphale held out a square of paper. “Here it is. Now, if you could sign…”

Crowley accepted the offered pen and scrawled his signature. “Thanks a million, angel.”

“Any time, my dear. It was my pleasure.” Aziraphale took the paper back. He laminated it with a click of his fingers. “All set. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Together, they stood up. Aziraphale fussed over him like a mother hen. Crowley tucked the I.D. into his pocket.

“Have you got everything?” Aziraphale demanded. “Car keys? The card? Sunglasses?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley said with exaggerated patience. “I’m wearing my shades, see? The card’s in my pocket. My rats are in position. The jacket’s in the car.”

“The jacket? Oh, no.” Aziraphale closed his eyes. “Not the one from the M25 debacle. Honestly, Crowley, _must_ you wear that thing?”

“Gotta blend in.”

“It’s orange,” Aziraphale protested. “Calling it that is a stretch. Crowley, it’s _hideous_.”

“It’s _camouflage_ ,” Crowley retorted.

“Against what? A herd of wild traffic cones?”

Crowley chuckled. “I don’t make the rules. Gotta pass as official somehow.”

Aziraphale turned away. “Wait a moment. I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”

Crowley waited, one hand on the doorknob, tapping his boot. It was close to seven. Most of the population would be leaving work. He’d have to be quick to avoid traffic. Crowley didn’t shout or rush the angel. Aziraphale was doing him a favor. He might have come up with something else. Like business cards.

Whatever he was grabbing for him, Crowley knew it would help.

Aziraphale entered the room. He was holding a thermos. “Here you are.”

Crowley suppressed a shudder. It was a tartan thermos. An exact replica of the one full of holy water Aziraphale had given him back in ’67. For a silent second, he gazed at it. Not again. Was it more holy water?

“It’s tea,” Aziraphale said quietly. “In case you get thirsty. It’s been so warm lately, I thought you could do with a little something to drink. I don’t want you getting dehydrated while your out performing your wiles.”

Crowley shook himself. Of course it wasn’t more holy water. One thermos was plenty. Aziraphale wouldn’t hand Crowley more of the fatal substance. This one was safe. A gift between friends.

He felt his face relax into a genuine smile. “Great,” he said. “Thanks, angel. You’re the best.” 

After an awkward pause lasting a second too long, he burst out, “We still on for dinner later? Say, eight-ish?”

Aziraphale blinked several times as if coming out of deep water. He returned Crowley’s smile. “Yes, indeed. Have fun, dear. Call me if there’s trouble.”

Crowley winked and put on his shades.

The drive to the tower was uneventful. He found parking around the corner, out of sight yet close enough should he have to make a quick getaway.

BT Tower loomed over the heads of countless commuters chattering into the phones stuffed in their ears. This was it. After months of brainstorming and research, it all came down to this. BT Tower, the nervous system of the digital age.

Crowley put on the disaster jacket, tucked the thermos under one arm, and picked up his clipboard. He paused long enough to admire Aziraphale's handiwork. The neat writing rendered it indistinguishable from a legit one. Clipping the I.D. in place, he sauntered inside. 

The lobby gleamed. Most of the employees had left by now. A bored-looking woman slouched behind a desk with _Security_ written across in plastic letters. She scribbled in a book. Sudoku, perhaps. Maybe a crossword puzzle. If she was bored now, wait till he was done.

Crowley rapped on the desk. She turned glazed eyes on him. “Can I help you?” Her tone of voice suggested he could help by going away.

“Rataway Pest Control.”

She looked relieved. “About time someone showed up.” She looked him up and down. “You’re a little light.”

Crowley suppressed a hiss of irritation. What did she expect, a taser and a net?

“Preliminary inspection,” he said breezily. “My job’s to take a look around. Traps go down first thing tomorrow.”

“Follow me.” The guard shivered. “I’ll take you up.”

Crowley kept his expression neutral. He leaned against the lift wall, thermos in one hand, clipboard under the other, ankles crossed. The picture of nonchalance.

The woman stared straight ahead. “It’s terrifying,” she said. “Put down a tuna sandwich yesterday, never saw it again. They’ve closed the top floors. No one’s allowed in. Health and Safety shut down access until your lot can get up there and deal with the...infestation.” She shuddered.

“We’ll soon see them off,” he said.

“Sunglasses? At night?”

Crowley shrugged. “My eyes.”

Why was everyone so interested in his sunglasses?

She didn’t ask again. The ride to the top floor was passed in awkward silence. The lift dinged, and the security guard stood back. Crowley had to squeeze around her.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it, then,” she said. She cast a furtive glance at the stairwell and shivered. “I’ve never seen so many. And they’re _huge!_ Have fun.”

Crowley nodded. He waited for the lift doors to close before ascending the stairs.

You couldn’t see anything. Every available surface was hidden under a swarm of gray. He scratched the nearest, its pelt a faded dusty gray, behind one ear. The rat nosed his fingers. They were sweet, really. Rats were cunning. Fiercely loyal mates and dedicated parents. Their ability to survive in inhospitable situations reminded Crowley of himself. Survivors.

And rats were _everywhere_. That’s what made them so awesome. Crowley’s rats were special. They could come and go as they wished, not beholden to anyone, and had a guaranteed lifespan of twenty years. Not a bad gig. All he asked was occasional assistance committing minor acts of evil.

Bright eyes followed Crowley as he strode into the center of the room. He surveyed it and nodded approvingly. This place was a mess. It had been abandoned in a hurry. Chairs had been pushed back carelessly. One or two had broken wheels. Papers in various states of completion littered the floor. The unmanned computers blinked and beeped. Numbers flashed. Lines of code blanketed every screen. The few pieces of equipment not swarming with vermin looked incredibly expensive.

Crowley unscrewed his thermos. He put the clipboard on the nearest keyboard, nudging a huge gray rat out of the way. “’Scuse me.”

Humming to himself, Crowley poured tea into the cap. Aziraphale had made his favorite. Earl Grey, judging by the smell, with three sugars. It was still warm.

Crowley lifted his mug in a salute. “Excellent job,” he called. “Well done, men.”

A huge black rat reared up, letting out an indignant squeak.

Crowley dipped his head. “My mistake. Of course, ladies too.” He flashed her a big smile. “Couldn’t do it without you. Job like this needs a woman’s touch.”

The rat flicked her tail. She nibbled his proffered finger in an affectionate sort of way. With a pang, Crowley remembered his first rat, Eve. (He’d meant the name to be ironic.) He’d pulled her from the jaws of a lion back on the Ark. She stayed at his shoulder for the rest of the trip. Eve was clever, with an attitude problem. Crowley had adored her. She’d lived to a ripe old age, somewhere in her twenties, and mothered many little ones. Crowley’s magic had rubbed off on her. Eve and her descendants were the healthiest rats on Earth.

Even now, Crowley recognized Eve in some of the rats. In the length of their bald tails and the pattern of the twitching whiskers. A good girl.

He gave the black rat a final scratch and gestured with his free hand. “Excellent job all around. Right, you can all go home. Have a good night.”

As one, the tide of rats swept into the vents. Crowley snapped his fingers. They’d get back to their various dens safe. A farewell chirp sounded behind him.

Crowley lifted the lid. “Yeah. Stay cool.”

Once the scuttling had subsided, Crowley strolled over the nearest computer. He opened the back, revealing a tangle of multicolored. Crowley studied for a moment, and dumped his tea.

Sparks flew. Alarms blared. Capitalized words flashed across the surrounding screens.

DANGER. MAIN SYSTEM MELTDOWN.

_Amazing what a cup of tea and a minor infestation can do._

Whistling cheerfully, he summoned the elevator. If he was quick, he’d be just in time for the show.

The guard was back at her desk, scribbling in her book. “That was quick,” she said. She didn't bother to look up.

“Left something in the van,” Crowley told her.

He left. No one stopped him.

Crowley shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it aside. It landed on a fencepost. It would find its way home. He wasn’t bothered.

Whistling between his teeth, bouncing on every alternate step, he swaggered to the Bentley. Seven o'clock, plenty of time to meet the angel. Aziraphale had mentioned sushi earlier this week.

“Listen, we need to talk,” someone was saying. “This isn’t working out. I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s me. I hope we can still be friends. Can you hear me?”

“Listen, Gavin, you can pick me up here. Hey, Gavin? Gavin!”

An invisible cloud of discontent circled the city, spreading out as phones shut down, deals fell through, and confusion reigned. A symphony of chaos. Disgruntlement would spread like an infectious disease. At this rate, all of London would be contaminated by nightfall. One small act, millions of souls tarnished. Not bad. Not bad at all.

He opened the Bentley’s door. Might as well take a little drive before dinner. Why not? He’d earned it. 

His nose twitched. Sulfur. Crowley lifted his chin and sniffed several times. His tongue, now forked, flicked out, tasting the air. His stomach plummeted. The smell was coming from a piece of paper tucked under the windscreen wiper.

Hell had sent a note.

Crowley held it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. He read it once. He blinked, read it again. He glanced at his watch, then at the paper.

_“Shit!”_

Cursing, he crumpled the paper and threw it into the gutter. He threw the Bentley in gear and drove. He was late.

Behind him, between a cigarette butt and a soda can left on the street, the paper from Hell curled into black flame.


	2. Crowley’s Plan

_I am_ so _screwed._

He’d driven through London like a bat out of Hell, Queen blasting all the way. Apart from a ten minute chase with interfering police officers, the trip had been smooth. It was night. The meeting was to take place in this tiny, unsuspecting graveyard. Crowley didn't know exactly where he was, but he knew he was somewhere in Oxford.

Fog swirled around the graves. The mist was so thick, the headlights couldn't penetrate it. The Bentley switched to Bohemian Rhapsody as they rolled to a stop. 

_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me..._

Crowley shot the car a warning glance. “Oi!” he hissed under his breath, making his tone as menacing as he could.

Car was too smart for its own damn good. Crowley couldn't see them yet, but he could tell he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There were demons lurking just out of sight. And demons in the plural. 

_For me,_ insisted the car.

Ninety years of demonic miracles had rubbed off on it. The Bentley’s sentience rivaled modern-day computers. Her sense of humor was a nice touch, but in this situation, it didn’t help.

“Be quiet!” Crowley whispered savagely. “You keep this up, I’ll be dragged back Downstairs, and you’ll be left in the angel’s hands. Do you want that? Huh? I love him to bits, but Aziraphale’s got no idea how to handle you, baby. No more Queen. Just Mozart. Or Bach.”

The Bentley ignored him. _So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?_

Crowley rapped the wheel. “Don't quote Queen at me, you sorry thing. You know what Head Office is like. I don't know who they sent up, but I'm late for the meeting. I'm on thin ice as it is. Do us both a favor and keep it down, will you? Keep it down to a dull roar and we'll both be fine.” 

_So you think you can love me and leave me to die?_

The Bentley sounded so forlorn. Crowley wasn't convinced.

“Yeah, keep it up, sweetheart. Sing Queen while you can. If the angel's left in charge, you can kiss Freddie Mercury goodbye.” He shuddered. “Not even Radio 4. It’ll be some old-fashioned trash from three hundred years ago. And he _hums_. Have you ever heard my angel hum? It’s torture. He can sing, he can bloody well sing like a bird, and he hums. Got the voice of an...angel,” he finished, lamely. Crowley pushed on. “Can you imagine what he’ll do if I’m not here? He’ll have all sorts of rules. You know what he’s like. Going under the speed limit? Yielding to jaywalkers? Obeying traffic laws? Parking _inside_ the lines? Tartan seatbelts? Think about it. Just you think about it. Sounds fun, right?” 

The radio dialed itself off.

“I didn’t think so.” Crowley stepped out and froze as the refrain followed him into the mist.

_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me._

He hastily shut the door, muffling the song. Cheeky thing. Ninety years and the old girl hadn’t lost her sense of humor yet.

Crowley turned to the demonic reception committee. _Ligur and Hastur. Bloody fantastic. That explains why the note smelled so strong._

They stood shoulder to shoulder, lurking. Much as he hated to admit it, Crowley admired them. Lurking was an art form with these two. Ligur’s eyes flashed in the gloom, changing colors in sync with the warty chameleon perched on his head. Cigarette smoke wreathed Hastur’s face. Crowley pitied the frog. First a wig, now secondhand smoke.

“All hail Satan.”

Crowley sighed. Why did that have to be the standard greeting? _What’s wrong with a handshake? Or a friendly wave?_

“Uh, hi,” he said. “How’s it hanging? Long time, no see.”

“You’re late,” Hastur said.

_Really? I hadn’t noticed._

“Uh, yeah. Sorry about that, but you know how it is on the A40 at Denham. I tried to cut up toward Chorleywood, y’know, less traffic up there this time of night-”

An impatient wave of the cigarette interrupted him. “Let’s recount the Deeds of the Day,” Hastur said.

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “’Course,” he said. “Deeds, yeah.”

“I,” Hastur said loftily, “have tempted a priest. He would’ve been a saint, if he hadn’t listened to me. Give it ten years, and he’ll be joining us as permanent resident.”

“Yeah, nice one.” Crowley managed a weak smile that almost passed as genuine.

“I persuaded a high-ranking politician to accept a _tiny_ bribe.” Ligur’s smile was all teeth. “We’ll be seeing him Downstairs _very_ shortly.”

“Good for you,” said Crowley.

Their murky gazes flicked to him.

“All right, Crowley,” Hastur growled. “What kept you? Let’s hear the latest excuse, and it had better be good.”

“For your sake,” Ligur added. The implied threat hung in the air.

“Right, you’ll like this,” Crowley beamed. “It’s better than good. It’s Grade-A Evil. It wasn’t easy, but I single-handedly brought down every phone network in London.” He paused, waiting for a reaction.

“And? That’s it?”

Crowley deflated _. Aziraphale had been impressed,_ a small voice in the back of his head whispered.

They’d agreed to meet for dinner at that sushi place Aziraphale had been dying to share with him. The way this meeting was going, he wouldn't make it. Crowley hoped the angel wouldn’t be too upset.

“How does _that_ help? We have a quota to meet, Crowley,” Hastur said. “Fiddling with wires seems like a waste of time.”

“It’s wide-ranging,” Crowley explained, warming to his subject. “Think about it. Fifteen million pissed off people in one fell swoop. And the best part is, they take it out on each other, and do all the work themselves.”

“Hardly craftsmanship,” Ligur said dismissively. “You’ve been up here since the Beginning, Crowley. Surely you can do better than that.”

Crowley grinned. “Well, Head Office don’t seem to mind,” he said. “They love me down there, guys.”

That shut them up. He didn’t answer to them. Crowley tried not to look too smug. For once, Hell’s complicated management system worked to his advantage. Dukes like Hastur and his unsavory friend only had so much authority. Crowley himself wasn’t high on the ladder, but his orders came from the very top. The Powers That Be were satisfied. These two couldn’t touch him. If the higher-ups weren’t complaining, he was safe. For now, at least.

Crowley bared his teeth. “Times are changing. So,” he broke off to sniff, and raised a smug shoulder, “what’s up?”

The sooner he got this over with, the better. Prolonged exposure to other demons always made his skin crawl. As soon as this was over, he’d go straight home, hop in the shower, and scour half the flesh from his back. Crowley brightened up. If he was quick, he might make it to dinner after all. Knowing him, Aziraphale would have the cocoa out and one of his records going. If he wasn’t eating sushi by now.

Without taking his eyes from Crowley’s, Hastur reached around the nearest tombstone and brought out a basket. The Basket.

Crowley’s stomach dropped. The smile deserted his face. A gallon of ice flooded his veins. _Oh, no._

Hastur was smiling now. “This is.”

“Already?” Crowley moaned. He was amazed his corporation’s vocal chords still worked. “So soon?”

“Yes,” intoned Hastur and Ligur. Their voices rang out like a knell.

“And it’s up to _me_?”

“Yes.” Hastur held out the basket. “Take it.”

Crowley hesitated. “Why me?”

“They love you Down There,” Hastur said smugly. “Head Office asked for you specifically. What an honor. Ligur here would give his right arm to be you tonight.”

“ _Someone’s_ right arm,” Ligur corrected. “No sense wasting a perfectly good one.”

Crowley stammered. He tried to summon a counterargument that could convince them to take it to someone else. _Anyone_ _else._

“Listen,” he began stalling for time, “this really isn’t my scene...”

“Not just your scene. Your starring role,” Hastur sneered. “Like you said, times are changing. Take it.”

“Why me?” Crowley demanded.

“Well, they love you down there. Said it yourself. And what an opportunity.”

Crowley swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

Hastur presented a clipboard fronted by an official-looking document. A contract. Typical.

“Sign,” Hastur spat.

“Love to.”

Crowley licked a finger and signed, using his real name. The sigil glowed, just for a second. Sparks flew. Crowley jerked his hand back. He hated doing that. The name he’d chosen for himself was a million times better than the one he’d had back in the old days. Crowley detested it. Brought back too many painful memories.

That was the whole point. Invoking a demon’s true name bound them body and soul. He didn’t have a choice. He’d do the job and do it right, or suffer until the end of time. Probably beyond. Things like time didn’t matter in Hell.

Hastur tucked the clipboard into his filthy overcoat as Crowley gingerly lifted the basket. It didn’t spontaneously combust. So far, so good. Crowley held his breath. He waited. Nothing happened. No lightning strike or dramatic music sting. The basket sat in his hand, dangerously mundane. And that worried him.

 _Funny_ , Crowley thought. _Thought it’d be heavier._

“Now what?” he asked.

“You’ll receive instructions, don’t worry,” Hastur said. “Why the long face, Crowley? The moment we’ve been working for all these centuries is finally at hand. They’ll pay for kicking us out.”

“Centuries,” Crowley echoed.

“Our moment of eternal triumph awaits,” Ligur said.

Crowley shook his head and tried to match his leer. “Triumph,” he said.

“And you,” Hastur said, “will be a tool of that glorious destiny.”

“Glorious tool,” Crowley agreed. “Yeah, OK.”

He took the basket, curling his fingers away from Hastur’s damp claws. He was always so slimy. Something about the frog clung to his essence at all times. Cold, wet, sickening.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll, um, be off then. Great. Fine. Yeah.”

Fighting to keep it cool, Crowley sauntered toward the waiting car. Neither spoke. Twin glares bored into the back of his head.

 _“Ciao!”_ Crowley called over his shoulder.

The Bentley shot into the darkness, cutting a furrow through the swirling mist. Grit sprayed under the tires. Crowley drove blindly. It didn’t matter where he was going. Right now, distance mattered. Distance and speed, nothing else. Getting as far away as possible from the other demons as quickly as possible. Get far, far away very, very fast.

“Shit, shit, shit, _shit!_ Why me?” Crowley demanded, banging the wheel. His mind buzzed. Why now? What had he done to deserve this? Why was Armageddon shoved on his plate?

Always helpful, the Bentley tuned her radio to the nearest station. BBC Radio 4, his default. Of course, a Queen song was just starting. Crowley patted the dashboard absently.

His blood ran cold as Freddie stopped singing and started speaking directly to him. It sounded like Freddie, but there was no mistaking the icy chill of Satan's voice. “Because you’ve earned it. What you did to the M25 was a stroke of demonic genius, Crowley. Don’t think we hadn’t noticed. Impressive, darling. Very impressive.”

_Of all things, a stupid road? That was years ago!_

Crowley found his voice. He gripped the steering wheel to keep his hands from trembling. “The M25? Uh, yeah. Yeah, glad it went down so well,” he said. “That’s good to hear.”

“Listen carefully,” Freddie urged. “This is the Big One, Crowley. Here’s what we want you to do.”

Invisible tendrils encircled his brain. Crowley went slack as his mind was taken over. Crackling static replaced his brain. He couldn’t move. Total violation of personal space, treating the inside of his mind like a memo board.

The Bentley swerved sharply. Crowley snapped out of it in time to see a lorry barrel past him on the left shoulder. The sudden lane change opened the basket. The thing inside screamed. It went on and on, a hideous one-note screech that grated his nerves and would’ve made his ears bleed, if Hell wasn’t such a noisy place to live.

Not only had his mind been invaded, they’d nearly crashed the car, too. _Bastards. Every last one of them. Why do they do that?!_

Crowley patted the dashboard. “Nice save,” he said.

The Bentley drove herself off the road to give him time to think. Darkness swallowed the car. Headlights flashed past. Traffic rumbled just beyond the trees.

Crowley sucked in a gulp of air. He dragged his hands down his face and fought to slow his jackhammering heart. Sweat drenched his back. He leaned back in his seat and tried to sift through the unwelcome orders Hell had deposited into his head.

_There’s a hospital somewhere nearby. Birthing hospital, and the American diplomat's wife is going into early labor. She went to the opening day on the new Air Base at Lower...Lower..._

The constant screaming made it hard to concentrate. He tried to ignore it.

_Tadfield! That's it. Lower Tadfield. OK, the hospital's in Lower Tadfield. We’re switching the baby of some American diplomat with the kid I’ve got, and I’ve got to take it to an order of Satanist Nuns…_

Another wail, louder this time.

Crowley winced. _How far to the stupid hospital?!_

He glanced over his shoulder. The basket trembled violently. Whatever was inside was desperate to get out. The wails were shrill and insistent, growing louder by the minute.

“You know what? Screw this,” he growled, and clambered into the backseat. The leather squeaked as he sat down. 

“Come on, kid,” Crowley muttered as he opened the basket. “Come to Uncle Crowley. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

A tiny, ominously normal-looking human baby stared back at him. They regarded each other for a second, the Serpent of Eden and the Infant Sent to End Everything. For Crowley, the lack of resemblance was something of a relief. The kid would have an easier time of it if he didn't inherit Satan's crimson complexion.

The baby started to scream. Not the shrill wail of a new demon. The terrified mewling of a new baby. A _human_ baby.

Crowley lifted him out. “You’re lucky,” he said. “Don’t take this the wrong way. He’s a looker, your old man. But you’ll have an easier time fitting in if you don’t carry the horns or giant wings. Trust me, I know. Humans don’t like fun things.”

He peeled off his glasses and gazed down. The child stopped fussing and stared at him, squinting with milky eyes. The serpentine pupils must have soothed him.

Crowley smiled. He looked just like a regular baby. Small, bald, covered in slime, and perfect. Utterly perfect. No matter how many newborns he held, it always brought the same surge of warmth to his shriveled black heart. The world at their feet, nowhere to go but up, all the wonders of creation at their chubby fingertips. There was something about newborns. All this untapped potential. Untouched by Heaven or Hell, a pure innocent. You didn’t get too much of that these days. It never ceased to amaze him. Generations go by. Thousands of years of evolution and whatnot, and newborns never change. They came into this world blind, helpless, and screaming. An unwelcoming world became theirs to shape as they grew.

The baby started to whine. Crowley relaxed. This was just another kid. His instincts kicked in, and he raised the writhing bundle to his shoulder. It squirmed, writhing in the dance performed across millennia by countless other new humans.

 _But he's not all human, is he?_ Crowley realized he was cradling The Adversary. Destroyer of Kings. Angel of the Bottomless Pit. Great Beast that is called Dragon. Prince of This World. Father of Lies. Spawn of Satan. Lord of Darkness. He stopped swaying. The baby started to cry again

He bounced the infant, stalling the wails. _I’d cry if I had a name like that, too. What a mouthful._

“Let’s hope your Earth family has something good picked out,” he said. “That name will never fit on a birthday cake.”

The baby stopped fussing when Crowley offered a finger. The child latched on with infantile strength, and Crowley winced. Kid had sharp nails.

“Dunno what they told you Downstairs, but Earth isn’t all bad. Sure, it’s a bit of a fixer-upper, but it’s bloody cool, too. Every day is a new chance to cause trouble. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, I promise. No matter what, I’ll be close by,” he said, rocking the baby. “Whatever happens. Think of me like...your demonic godfather.”

Even as he said it, Crowley felt his heart sink. _Who am I kidding? This is crazy. I can’t stop this. Not on my own._

“It’s a little scary at first,” Crowley went on. “I’m not gonna lie. But it’s _so_ much fun. Yeah, you’re in for a treat. There’s a _lot_ to do up here. Video games and pizza. High-speed car chases, felony tax invasion, value-added tax. It’s a blast. Who knows? You might even find someone special.”

His mind flashed to Aziraphale. Crowley remembered the sunlit glades of the Garden. Eating crepes in France. Watching _Hamlet_ in all its depressing glory.

“Someone really special,” Crowley mumbled. 

He shook himself. No need to confuse the kid. Life was messy enough without dumping unwelcome feelings into the mix.

“Listen, I’m gonna pass you over your pretend parents in, like, five minutes,” he said. “Get this. They’re _American_. Lucky, right? America’s got all the good stuff. But don’t worry, I’ll be close by. He's a diplomat, so he's staying in London. Uncle Crowley’s gonna keep an eye on you, kiddo. Make sure you know all the ins and outs of demon magic.”

Magic. Not just magic. Miracles Crowley stared at the baby, not really seeing him.. His eyes lit up. He’d just thought of something. An idea, a stroke of utter genius. Something so crazy, so outlandishly stupid, it _had_ to work.

Crowley started to grin. “You know what,” he said, still rocking the baby, “I might have a little help. You’ll like him. He’s not bad, for an angel. Don’t tell anyone.”

 _If I can talk him into it,_ Crowley added silently. _A balance of good and evil. We might have a chance. We’ll have to work together, and that’s if I can convince him._

It wouldn’t be easy. What he was asking for was a lot more difficult than forging a fake I.D. card or covering for a temptation in Scotland. But there was still hope. Aziraphale loved the world as much as Crowley did.

The Antichrist squirmed. Crowley rocked him, murmuring under his breath. The old lullaby rolled off his tongue before he knew what he was doing. 

“Go to sleep and dream of pain. Doom and darkness, blood and brains.”

The baby rolled over, seeking heat. His whimpering stalled. A balled up-foot escaped the blanket. 

_Red_ , Crowley noted. _Typical. Daddy’s signature color._

He rewrapped the baby, bundling him more securely in his red blanket. A little fist clenched his shirt. Crowley stiffened, but kept singing.

“Sleep so sweet, my darling boy. You will rule when Earth’s destroyed.”

The little one squirmed, then settled in his arms. Crowley smiled. Demonic spawn or not, the old lullaby worked every time. Looking at the sleeping baby, Crowley realized something. Nobody had ever held this kid. This was his first experience of skin to skin contact.

Crowley sputtered his lips. It didn’t have to be this way. Entrusting six pounds of human-shaped hellspawn with the future of humanity. _No pressure, huh? Poor kid._

The baby’s eyes fluttered shut. He drifted off, content, wrapped in Crowley’s arms, one hand still fisting his black jacket. 

“Best of luck, hellspawn,” Crowley murmured. “Try not to destroy the world, will you? It’s fun. One of my better assignments. Do me a favor, will you? Don’t blow her up.”

As the first demon stationed on Earth, instigator of the original sin, dread Serpent of Eden, it was Crowley’s job to make sure Lucifer Jr. here fulfilled his role and destroyed Earth. In the eyes of Hell, a mission like this was the highest honor. To Crowley, it felt more like a death sentence. Crowley sighed. It was one thing if the kid failed. If _he_ failed, Lucifer would probably turn him into a very attractive snakeskin belt.

Crowley repressed a shudder. Very carefully, he returned Lucifer Jr. to the basket and shut the lid. _Talk about coming up from Hell in a handbasket._

He clambered up front and put the car in gear. “Come on, sweetheart,” Crowley told the Bentley in an undertone. “Let’s get it over with.”

The rest of the drive was uneventful. The baby slept, soothed by his song. Five minutes later, the Bentley's headlights found a wrought-iron fence. Two stone lions stood guard on either side. Gravel crunched under the tires.

Crowley pulled to a stop. This was it. The hospital. No one was in sight. Good.

As he stalked out of the car, the basket swinging from his hand, Crowley saw a man. He stiffened. The father? He shouldn't be here. Wasn’t the father supposed to in D.C.? Hell’s inside man in the State Department made “arrangements” for the American to be called back home on an urgent mission. They’d set all this up carefully. The wife would be alone. The swap would be flawless.

For a second, they regarded each other; the man smoking a pipe, and the demon holding a basket containing the Antichrist.

The man indicated the Bentley. “You’ve left your lights on.”

Crowley snapped his fingers distractedly.

“Automatic, eh? Is it infra-red?”

Crowley stared at him. He didn’t have time for this. “Where is she?”

“Room three,” said the man.

“It’s started? Already?” Crowley stiffened. “Any idea how long we’ve got?”

“I think we were...getting on with it, Doctor.”

 _You're outside smoking. You don't know how it's going, and you chose to go for a smoke?_ Crowley frowned. _What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be with the wife? It's your kid, too._

Childbirth was never a pleasant experience. Why wasn't the father there? He'd talked out of going back to D.C. Why hide in the fog while his wife underwent on of the most strenuous experiences known to humans? Crowley snorted. Trust an American to be squeamish. Crowley had overseen so many births, he’d become accustomed to the process. Small wonder the snake had become a symbol of fertility and childbirth.

_So what’s Dowling doing here? Hiding in the fog smoking a pipe. Americans! No backbone._

Too concerned to give it much thought, Crowley shoved the door with his shoulder. Humans remained humans, whatever obstacles Head Office put in place. Maybe his love for his wife convinced him to stay. Maybe Dowling had somehow talked his way out of going back to D.C. Postponed it, maybe. Who could say?

 _Must be nice,_ Crowley thought sourly. _To have free will._

The basket jostled as the baby squirmed. Crowley stopped to adjust his hold.

“At least _you_ have free will,” he murmured. “I envy you, kid. I really do. You’re welcome, by the way. Without the whole eat-the-apple-business, things around here would be a lot less interesting. Have fun, all right?”

The infant sneezed. Crowley swallowed past the lump in his throat. Better get this over and done with. Before he got in too deep.

The halls were dark and deserted. He waited in a doorway. A huge statue dominated the center of the room. A man and a huge snake, it looked like a constrictor, wrestling in mortal combat. He enjoyed the statue. The snake was winning. The invasion of his mind hadn't told Crowley which nun to pass the kid over to. One nun was as good as any other.

A dark wimple flashed past. _Bingo._

“Psst.”

The nun turned. As their gazes locked, her name appeared in his mind. Sister Mary Loquacious.

She was holding a tin of biscuits. Her eyes wandered down to the basket in his outstretched hand. Crowley heard the muffled intake of breath and resisted the urge to grab the baby and run for the nearest star system. 

Stumbling a little, the biscuit tray in her hand rattling, Sister Mary reached for the flap. “That’s him?”

“Yup,” Crowley said, popping the p. It took all his willpower to remain impartial.

The nun took the basket and peered inside. “He’s so cute,” she gushed. “Aren’t you, aren’t you?”

Crowley winced. One of _those_. She was talking to the kid like he was a dog.

“Room three,” he said pointedly.

Tucking the tin against her shoulder, she reached for the grasping fingers. The baby sneezed. She laughed. “Fancy that. He’s normal. Best cover is in plain sight, I suppose. Oh, aren’t you darling? Master Crowley, are you _sure_ this is the right baby?”

“It’s definitely him,” Crowley said. 

“Fancy me holding the Antichrist,” Sister Mary breathed. “What an honor! Counting those adorable toes.”

Crowley tried a smile that felt more like a grimace. His cheeks screamed in protest. _Take the kid,_ he begged her silently. _Stop cooing and take him away before I do something stupid._

“I was expecting funny eyes,” the nun went on. Were all members of the Order this chatty? “Or a widdle tail. Or horns, maybe.”

Crowley’s forked tongue shot out. Thankfully, the empty-headed woman didn’t notice. What did she think the Antichrist would be, glowing like toxic waste? Why did coming from Hell mean funny looks?

Angels weren’t known for their camouflage skills. He’d seen one back in Persia, coming down from the sky to deliver a ‘Devine Prophecy’ to Aziraphale. The humans standing nearby, there had been three, suffered collective heart attacks. Crowley had restored them, more to keep Aziraphale from panicking than anything else.

The sight of six wings and countless faces wreathed in spectral light was too much for mortal eyes. Who knew?

Sister Mary’s twittering dragged Crowley back to the present. “Does he look like his daddy?” she asked. Crowley couldn’t tell if she was talking to him or the baby. “You know what, I’ll bet he does.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t,” Crowley said shortly. “Shake a leg. Room three.”

Nuns. Always assuming the Devil was handsome. In his time, Satan had been quite a looker. Not so much these days. Crowley hadn’t seen the Big Man since Eden. The order to cause trouble Above came from Satan himself. In those days, Hell’s bureaucracy was still in its infancy.

Sister Mary was still cooing. “Do you think he’ll remember me when he grows up?” she asked, offering a finger to the baby.

Crowley couldn’t stand by and watch this any longer. The urge to grab the kid and flee to Alpha Centauri was overwhelming. It _had_ to be this way.

“Pray that he doesn’t,” Crowley said over his shoulder as he pushed the door open.

 _I hope for your sake they know what they’re doing._ _Good luck, kid. We’re all gonna need it._


End file.
